His Angel
by Shadowed Foulness
Summary: Tom Riddle Jr. loves a man. One shot


**Title: His Angel  
**By; Shadowed Foulness.

* * *

They say Voldemort loved no one, they were wrong. He loved, hard. For when so many thought Tom Riddle Sr. was completely bewitched, victim to a certain Gaunt's potion, he had in fact felt a certain kind of fondness for his eccentric looking wife and it would seem that the dark haired baby the woman bore him still had hope after all.

The sunlight warmly lit the cosy room. The room which was messy with all the books sprawled everywhere, some opened while others were magically levitated with red circles on the pages. A prominent red writing desk decorated the room, placed to directly face the busy street of Knockturn Alley. A comfortable hum buzzed throughout the room, clearly the occupants were still resting after their particularly brutal workout just the night before.

On the mattress, two people tangled together. If it weren't for their distinctive hair colour, no one would assume that there were two persons by the way they were closely holding on to each other. The blonde loyally holding on to the dark haired's neck while laying on the comfortable crook of his angel's shoulders.

Tom Riddle opened his eyes, his first thoughts on what could make him fly. For a while now he's been curious, very curious. He's read everything he could lay his fingers on that would help him to achieve just that, fly. His second thoughts, much more flowery than he'd preferred crept and a small broken smile adjusted itself into his features.

"Open your eyes," Tom instructed, anxious to see those beautiful grey eyes.

One grey orb slowly revealed itself to Tom, hesitating since the owner didn't know what state Tom would be like this morning. He hated how much his Tom was slowly losing himself, he can see him slipping away.

First it was his body, his comforting warmth had disappeared to only be replaced with that dangerous cold and now, his heart heavy when he sees his lovers once magnificently fierce blue eyes dead, killed by his own devil and red slits took its place.

"What?" The Lover shook his head.  
"Look at me, your _master_,"

A strong demanding finger lifted the lover's head. Ah, it would seem his angel was in good spirits.

"Your eyes," the lover gently traced Tom's slits, still with his own eyes half closed. It was almost time.

"No, _your_ eyes,"

* * *

1812 Overture was playing in the background, its joyous notes strongly opposing the scene unfolding the bubble it protected.

"You can still stop this madness you know. Come with me instead," the lover gently pleaded, taking care to carefully place back the small hair that had fallen off Tom's face.

"Madness? What could you possibly be on about? This, my friend is only the first page of history. MY history for this is my moment, my great moment. How long have I waited? Too long,"

"I take it you won't be convinced otherwise,"  
"Yes"  
"And to that, I must leave,"  
"What do you mean leave?"  
"You know what I mean Tom," so softly had he say it, Tom. On his hips, it sounded reverent, almost martyr like a dying man uttering some nonsense to a non-existant angel but on his lips, he never wanted it to stop.

"You can stay, stay with me, rule with me,"  
"I can't, I can't stay here and watch you die!"  
"But I won't. In fact, you will never watch me die. This, I can promise you,"  
"You still don't get it, do you?"  
Tom made a gesture to continue and so the lover did,

"If you continue with this, this mad plan! You _are_ going to die, you _will_ murder yourself, _will_ destroy whatever good that is still left inside. I can see it Tom, you _are_ slipping away," he slowly slip a hand to touch his lovers face, so beautiful, his angel.

"And before you know it, this" the lover accusingly pointed to both of them "will be lost, all its beauty will be gone. If you can't stop, at least let me preserve the beauty, my angel,"

"Angel? What a delusion," The lover defiantly stood and touched Tom's face again, his heart breaks!  
"To me, its always been the case," a soft chaste kiss and a quietly eerie pop, the lover was gone.

* * *

1812 Overture plays in the background. Voldemort rubs his temple, memories!

"Kill him," the Dark Lord commands.

How silly of the boy to use his own memories against him! Where the boy even got the memory, he had almost been curious. Too curious to just let it all slip, victory is mine he reminded himself. His lover..

_Obliviate _

A shrill manic laugh echoes through the room, "Victory is _ours,"_

* * *

19th March 1999, the boy who lives finally dies.

"My love, I will come to you now," dark dusts formed around Voldemort, shedding all of him until all that is left is the happy tunes of Overture.

**AN: **Thank you for reading. Have an awesome week! ;)


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